Chapter Thirty-Seven

The duke nodded to his butler, an indication that the man ought to bring in the usual after-dinner fare. He returned, however, without a single decanter or glass, instead carrying a silver salver on which lay a box any gentleman would recognize as containing a pair of Manton’s dueling pistols. The duke lifted the cherrywood box and set it on the table.

James reminded himself forcefully of his instructions to appear unsurprised. Fortunately, Father’s attention was so riveted on the unexpected sight, he paid James not a whit of attention.

The duke silently pulled an immaculate pistol from its box. He examined it thoughtfully. “I understand you have been quite talkative these past few days.”

Father must have sensed the question was aimed at him. “I am not sure what you mean.”

“Rumor has it you have told anyone who will listen that your son is a profligate, worthless, and irresponsible young man. Yet I have placed my confidence in him this past week or more while my secretary is on holiday. Tell me”—the duke’s tone had turned decidedly cold—“which of us is mistaken in his character? You?” His Grace pinned Father with a look so black James shuddered despite not being its recipient. “Or I?”

“I . . . uh . . .” Father’s eyes darted between the pistol held so confidently in the duke’s hand and a deadly looking dagger at the ready near the duke’s side.

“It is also widely discussed that you claim your son is an inveterate gambler, without morals or self-control, that he has no regard for your fortune or good name. Lord Tilburn has been a guest in this house in the company of members of my family, and we have seen not a hint of what you claim. Again I ask you: Who is the idiot? You? Or every member of this family?”

Father paled noticeably. “I may have exaggerated a little.”

“And that in itself is another falsehood,” the duke said. “If there is one thing I cannot abide it is a jackanapes with the gall to lie to me while he is sitting at my table.”

Not an ounce of color remained in Father’s face. James could hardly fault him for his fear. The Dangerous Duke was so called for good reason.

“Your son has found a place in this family, not because of your efforts but because of his character. If you malign him, you malign this family, and that I will not tolerate. Lest it has slipped your notice, I am the Duke of Kielder.”

His Grace set his pistol on the table but kept one hand on it. The duke, the lieutenant, even the butler glared at the quivering Earl of Techney. James very much feared his father would suffer the swoon Miss Artemis had offered to feign.

“I hold greater sway than the Royal Family,” the duke said firmly. “Society dares not contradict me in anything. A single word from me, a look, and you would find yourself irrevocably and universally shunned.”

The duke, then, understood Father’s only weakness—his desire for prestige and importance. James never could threaten him in that way, so every attempt he made to undermine his father’s bullying proved fruitless.

“You would ruin me?” Father’s voice actually broke.

“Ruining people is for the unimaginative,” the duke said.

Father’s belabored attempt to swallow was likely heard as far afield as Ireland. “I believe I understand your message.”

“How surprisingly astute,” the duke drawled. Without a word, he rose and left the room, obviously intending to join the ladies in the drawing room. His companions did the same.

“I cannot imagine what you have done to earn yourself such fierce defenders,” Father said under his breath, walking at James’s side. The remark carried less censure than his comments usually did.

“I chose to be honest with them,” James replied. “In return, I learned to put the feelings of others above my own—a lesson, I assure you, I was not taught at home.”

“I have had quite enough set downs for one day, Tilburn.” Father kept his voice low, but his tone snapped. “You humiliated our family and now have chosen to see me threatened for attempting to pick up the pieces of our reputation.”

They stepped into the drawing room on the heels of the duke and Lieutenant Lancaster. Father’s expression immediately became one of meek acceptance, all the fight James had heard in his tone but a split second before evaporating.

James did not dwell overly long on the change. As always, when he knew Daphne to be nearby, his eyes immediately sought her out. She sat near the fireplace, watching him with a questioning look and a concern he found infinitely touching.

She rose as he reached her side. “Adam would not tell me what he and Linus planned to do,” she said. “I hope he has not caused you difficulties.”

“Not at all.” He hoped his smile was reassuring. “They may have done the impossible and convinced my father to, for lack of a better expression, stop talking so much.”

“I hope you are right.” Her eyes focused over his shoulder, and an unmistakable aura of uncertainty settled around her.

James turned in the direction of her gaze and watched his father approach them. A surge of protectiveness swept over him. He would not allow Father to injure Daphne’s tender feelings any further. He moved closer to her, knowing he likely appeared very proprietary but hoping the stance would prove a warning.

“Miss Lancaster,” Father said.

James resisted the urge to wrap his arm around her shoulders. The lieutenant might very well have him keelhauled were he to step so far out of the bounds of propriety. Still, he kept close to her side, prepared to resort to fisticuffs with his own father in a drawing room if necessary to protect Daphne from the man’s vitriol.

“Yes, Lord Techney?” Daphne trembled slightly as she spoke, yet her voice held an admirable note of determination.

Hang propriety, he inwardly declared. He took gentle hold of her arm and stepped the slightest bit in front of her, conveying without words that Father was not to mistreat her.

Father’s eyes darted quickly in the direction of the duke and lieutenant. His countenance paled a little. “My wife has spoken of little beyond the efficacy of your throat tonics. I felt to express her . . . our gratitude.”

Daphne dipped her head ever so slightly. “I was pleased to be of assistance, something she seemed to receive little enough of.”

James saw his father’s jaw tighten in response to that well-placed verbal thrust.

“I will endure a set down from the Duke of Kielder but not from an overlooked debutante who—”

“That is quite enough, Father.” James spoke through clenched teeth.

“Boy, do not—”

Across the room, the duke cleared his throat loudly. The lieutenant unsubtly moved his sword hand to his scabbard.

Daphne drew the smallest bit closer to James. He kept his hand on the back of her arm, allowing his thumb to lightly stroke it in what he hoped she interpreted as a gesture of support. If Father uttered another disparaging word to her, James would fillet him and leave the duke to deal with the remains.

Father offered something of a bow and stepped away, finding a seat somewhat removed from the rest of the company. James remained at Daphne’s side, still thrown off by the odd sight of his father cowed.

Miss Artemis dove into a rather heart-wrenching recitation of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

James led Daphne to a sofa, taking his seat beside her.

“You must think me the worst sort of coward,” she whispered too softly for anyone else to overhear.

“Why on earth would I think that?” he replied in the same low tone.

“I ought not to have shrunk away from your father. I ought to have been confident and unshaken.” Her face fell. “Instead I stood there shaking, waiting for him to say something cutting.”

Miss Artemis’s performance completely held the attention of the others in the room. James cupped Daphne’s chin with his hand and turned her face up toward his before pressing a light kiss on her forehead. He lingered, fighting the temptation to actually, truly kiss her.

A man might expect a lot of different reactions after tenderly kissing a lady with whom he’d fallen in love. James, however, hadn’t anticipated her face crumbling, a sheen of tears in her eyes, and a swift, silent flight from the room.

* * *

Running from the drawing room hadn’t been part of the night’s planned entertainment, but Daphne hadn’t known what else to do. He’d held her so tenderly. He’d defended her to his father. She could feel her defenses crumbling entirely, and it terrified her.

James appeared in the empty sitting room only a moment after she arrived.

She tightened her clasped hands, tension radiating through every muscle in her body.

“I am sorry,” James said. “I should not have kissed you as I did, especially in front of so many people.”

I should not have kissed you. This most recent kiss was far less personal than the one they’d shared in front of the mirror. Did he regret that as well?

She tried to step away, but he took her hand, holding her near him. Gently, he brought her back to his side.

“What would it take, my Little Sparrow, to keep you from flying away again?”

The long-treasured endearment seized her heart and rendered her momentarily unable to speak.

“Ours was a difficult beginning,” he said, “but I swear to you, my affection for you is deep and real.”

“I do want to believe you,” she whispered. “But I have been hurt too many times.”

“Mark my words. I will find a way to prove myself.” He leaned toward her and lightly kissed the tip of her nose. A shiver tiptoed down her spine and echoed through her arms and legs. He stood so close she could smell his shaving soap and feel his warmth.

He leaned his forehead against hers long enough to say again, “I will find a way.”